


The Magical Unifying Powers of Gratuitous Selfies

by LileathForetoldThisDay



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A stray Star Trek reference, AU, Again- a shitload of swearing, Bad Jokes, Biker Gangs Au, Bilbo is short, Born mostly of sleep deprivation, Crack, Extreme SJW-ing, Gangsta Gandalf, General insanity, I Did It For The Lulz, I'm Sorry, I'm so sorry, KAMEHAMEHA, Legolas is a thot, Modern AU, Multi, Oh My God, Party Animal/SJW Elves, Profanity, Swearing, The One Ring is an iPhone 7, Tolkien, Unapologetic Crack, WILLIAM SHATNER IS AN ASSHOLE, Way too many motherfucking LMFAO songs, Well - Freeform, Well not really, and a weird selfie power, and not in the good way, bad language, but he's a nice thot, but it gets pretty close, do not read to your parents, everybody's human, forgive me lord for i have sinned, human-ish, i didn't mean to do this, ish, it is now 4:20 PM Kansas time, it's special because it has an audio jack, kate mulgrew is precious tho and I love her, oh shit, possibly racially offensive mannerisms, sort of, there's like a bad word every five sentences, wait yes I did, way too much meme for your sanity, what the hell am i doing, whoops I forgot about my mandatory Warhammer 40K reference but I guess I'll just have to deal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2018-12-12 12:05:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11736699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LileathForetoldThisDay/pseuds/LileathForetoldThisDay
Summary: Bilbo Baggins, an author, is swept up on a magical adventure with a biker gang at the urging of his extremely strange friend Gandalf, where he finds a magical phone that does some weird-ass shit. Also he falls in love.Years later, the phone falls to his nephew Frodo, who decides to figure out just who the fuck it belongs to. Turns out, the owner is a man named Mairon Aulendil who lives on the other side of the country and is also being hunted by his ex-boyfriend, a Mafia boss.Inspired by the tragic story of love and loss unveiled by selfies and texts he finds on the phone, Frodo forms his own biker gang and embarks on a journey to restore a valued possession to its rightful owner.Oh, and lots of people try to kill them on the way.





	1. The Finding of the Phone

Bilbo Baggins, burglar extraordinaire (if Gandalf was to be listened to), trotted along at the heels of Thorin & Co. as they swaggered off to pick up chicks.

He was rather regretting going with them. He had his own shit to do, damn it, that could be comfortably done at home, sitting in a chair with his laptop by the fire, instead of following this group of total thots around town cruising for women. He didn’t even _like_ women.

But Gandalf was Gandalf, and there was no saying no to him. Besides, he consoled himself, it wasn’t so bad, anyways. At least he got to stare at Thorin’s perfect ass under those black leather bike pants.

They coagulated at a table in a seedy bar. Fili and Kili, the bastards, ordered several shots for Bilbo that had him coughing like his life depended on it.

Over at the bar, Thorin, Bifur, and Bofur were flirting with three rather large ladies that also seemed to be rather interested in them. Bilbo just kept knocking back shots, hoping it would somehow get better. The three bikers left with the three ladies. The three biker dudes came back.

“How’d it go?” Kili called to Thorin.

Thorin made a disgusted noise. “Trolls. All of them.”

Bilbo winced in sympathy, despite himself.

Totally wasted, it was all he could do to avoid tripping and falling flat on his face as Thorin deposited him in the sidecar of Bofur’s quote “sick ride” end quote. The Company drove around town aimlessly for a while, leering at female passerby, until they eventually ended up at a place called Imladris.

Now, Imladris was a nice bar, full of well-dressed, well-mannered people. Thorin & Co. were the last people Bilbo thought he’d ever see in such an establishment. It showed, too- all of them highly at odds with the environment. Thorin was hostile, Fili and Kili wouldn’t stop wisecracking, Bombur was a glutton, Dwalin accidentally hit on a guy, and Balin (plenty of “he be ballin’” jokes there) did his best to keep them all under control.

If anyone bothered to ask Bilbo’s opinion, he’d say the man did an excellent job. But of course nobody really cared, except maybe Bofur, so he wasn’t asked about anything. Bilbo contented himself with stammering awkwardly at the fashionable people who approached him as he sat, in all his short glory, at the bar, legs swinging off the stool in a rather embarrassing fashion.

After a while, the owner of the establishment appeared, wearing a rather nice set of formal robes with a nametag that read HELLO MY NAME IS ELROND that Bilbo was pretty sure had gone out of style a few centuries ago, but also carrying a Samsung Galaxy 6s in his hand, so maybe the dude wasn’t completely behind the times. He exchanged a few terse words with Thorin and handed him something. Well, Thorin was terse. Elrond was perfectly chill about the whole thing.

Having picked up his mystery package from the (land)lord of Imladris, Thorin gathered his company plus one and loaded them all onto their bikes.

“To the mountain pass,” he shouted.

Bilbo, in Bofur’s sidecar, started. “Wait, I never agreed to going on a road trip with you guys!”

“Too late, laddie,” said Bofur, in his charmingly thick Irish accent with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re part of the Company now.”

“I barely even know you guys,” Bilbo protested. Nobody listened.

After about thirty minutes, he became aware of an issue. “Where’s Gandalf?”

“Oh, he’s staying in Imladris for a bit,” said Bofur. “He’s got to catch up with Elrond.”

“Well, fuck,” said Bilbo.

The Company continued on into the mountains. By nightfall, they’d reached about the middle of the pass, and everybody was too tired to keep going, so they broke out their sleeping bags and parked their bikes out by a nice little cave on the side of the road.

Bilbo sat awake until he was pretty sure it was midnight. Then, as quietly as he could (which was pretty damn quiet), he snuck out to the front of the cave, where lo and behold! Bofur was keeping watch. Just his luck.

“Dude, listen,” he said. “I just want to go home. I don’t belong here, on a road trip, with a bunch of people I don’t even know. I’m not even straight. I don’t even like women.”

Bofur sighed, but nodded. “Alright, then, laddie. If that’s what you really want.”

“Thank you,” said Bilbo, and then the ground opened up and swallowed them whole, as a flash of bright light seared his retinas better than the steak he’d eaten three days ago.

As it turned out, this was all a trap set by a rival biker gang. Bilbo, being small and quiet and relatively inconspicuous and also not one of the Company, was passed over, as Thorin and the others were shuffled towards a central podium, where an enormously fat biker dude lounged on an armchair and ate chips.

“Azog will pay me handsomely for your head,” giggled the fat dude.

Wait. What? That couldn’t be right. Was the fat dude actually going to kill him?

That was no good at all. Bilbo had to do something; he couldn’t just stand by and watch a guy get decapitated.

“I mean, I don’t really know or like the guy, but he has a great ass,” he reasoned with himself. “Nobody with an ass that great should be allowed to die.”

Also who the hell was Azog?

Unfortunately, he was not given any more time to think on it, because somebody had spotted him and was coming towards him with a machete. Bilbo didn’t really know much in the way of biker gang etiquette, but he knew that man approaching with sharp object equals bad, so he churned his stumpy little legs as fast as they would go. The man caught up to him anyways. Bilbo, fully expecting to at least be horribly maimed and not be able to live without the aid of medical magic for the rest of his life, brought his knee up in a last, desperate attempt to defend himself, and actually managed to get the guy square in the balls.

The biker dude squealed in pain. They tussled, Bilbo bit something, and then they fell over the walkway railing, down into the black below.

He came to in a very dark part of the compound. The guy he’d kneed in the balls was dead.

He could go to jail for this.

“It was self-defense,” he muttered. “Besides, you’ve got bigger things to worry about, like where you are, and how to stay alive and hopefully rejoin the Company.”

He felt along the floor, trying to ascertain a direction in which to travel. Suddenly, his hand brushed against something smooth and warm. He picked it up and pressed the button.

“An iPhone 7,” he breathed. “What’s this doing down here?”

It was a glorious machine, equipped with a state-of-the-art display and an unlimited data plan that somebody else was paying for. It already had several games on it: the standard Flappy Bird, Candy Crush, Bubble Witch Saga, etc.

“Well, this belongs to me now,” said Bilbo, and put it in his pocket.

Then he took it back out again, because the flashlight feature was very useful in determining a good direction to go.

After a lot of walking, he came across a really pale, weird-looking dude who went off on a monologue about how much he’d like to eat Bilbo. Judging by the sharp points his teeth had been filed into, and the blood on his mouth, Bilbo didn’t think he was kidding.

“Is there any way I can convince you to show me out?” he tried.

The pale dude considered. “It must play a game of riddles with us, precious! If it loses, we eats it! If it wins, we shows it the way out! Yes, precious!”

“Have you considered talking to a therapist?” Bilbo asked him.

It glared.

“Just curious,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Okay. Riddles, yes? Let’s do this.” _This is some serious bullshit,_ he thought privately.

He was able to guess all of the ones the pale dude gave him, which was at once a great relief and hardly surprising at all. Bilbo was a fucking author, for fuck’s sake. Of course he knew riddles.

The pale dude had a harder time guessing, but he still managed to guess all of them, right down to the very last one.

Which, technically, it wasn’t a riddle, but the pale dude seemed to think it was, and Bilbo didn’t really care to correct him.

Mostly, it was a complete accident. He’d put the iPhone away once he reached the glow of the pale dude’s computer setup, on which a freshly typed comment under the username GOLLUM read: FUCK U BICH UR A BIG FAT RETARD. Then, as he had a habit of doing, he put his hands in his pockets, having forgot about the phone, and went, “What the hell is in my pocket?”

Gollum, of course, could not guess, and was very upset when he lost. Still, he seemed to honor his promise, saying they’d leave as soon as he got something out of his desk.

Which he couldn’t seem to find.

“Curses and trickses!” he bawled. “The Precious is lost!”

“What is it? What have you lost?” Bilbo asked him impatiently.

A gleam of suspicion entered Gollum’s eye. “What has it got in its pocketses?” he muttered to himself, and Bilbo knew it was time to run.

He ran down the first passageway he saw, and then took a couple of lefts and a right, thoroughly surprised when he saw the light of day and an exit right in front of him. However, it was guarded by a couple of the weird rival biker dudes from before!

“Shit,” said Bilbo.

As Gollum approached, he whipped out his new phone. “Want to take a selfie?” he asked lamely.

He was not prepared for Gollum’s eyes to suddenly light up. “Yes, precious,” said the loathsome creature. So he powered it up, opened the Camera app, and took a burst of selfies with the guy who’d been threatening to literally eat him for dinner. It was quite touching. He ought to write a book on it: The Unifying Power of Selfies. They shook hands and parted amicably.

Then Bilbo remembered he was walking into a pair of people he didn’t want to be walking into.

“Uhh, want to take a selfie?” he asked, in response to the twin pair of hostile looks.

And just as before, the biker dudes readily agreed, gathering around his phone to snap a couple shots. They shook hands and exchanged phone numbers, promising to chat each other up, and quite forgot they were supposed to be fighting in the first place.

Bilbo toddled along the mountain slopes until he found himself face-to-face with Dwalin.

“Uh, hello,” he said.

“BILBO!” cried Dwalin, and enveloped him in the manliest of hugs. He was passed around to everyone else until absolutely every single member of the Company had embraced him, some of them twice.

He was spat out in front of the one person he absolutely wanted to see at the moment.

“Gandalf!” he cried.

“Wassup my nigga,” said Gandalf, giving him a manly nod and arm-shake.

Bilbo stared. “You’re- you’re not allowed to say that, Gandalf.”

“Yo, why not, fam?”

“You are the whitest person I have ever met, or ever even seen,” said Bilbo. “Not to mention, you’re like, seventy.”

“Dude, that’s racist, yo,” said Gandalf. “Can’t a brotha live his life in peace?”

“Stop,” said Bilbo. “Please. For the love of all that is good and holy, STOP.”

 

………………

 

“Wait. He did not actually say that,” Elrond demanded. “Did he really?”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo nodded, and shuddered. “Yes, indeed.”

 

………………

 

After everyone was suitably convinced that yes, Bilbo was fine, and no, he wasn’t angry with them, Thorin ordered the Company on the march, Bilbo still reeling over the sudden amount of rapport he’d unexpectedly gained with these biker dudes and the fact that Thorin was actually glad to see him.

“So, who were those guys, anyways?” he asked Thorin.

“Goblins,” said Thorin. “They’re an offshoot of the Orcs, which are a bunch of racist assholes that ride around shooting people on motorcycles.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, wondering how it affected this rather non-diverse collection of white guys.

“Their leader is even called the Pale Orc,” Thorin grumbled. “See what I mean?”

Bilbo nodded. That was definitely a clear picture.

“My dad was a politician,” said Thorin. “One day, the Pale Orc gets it into his head that my dad, who advocated civil rights, needed to go. So, he does a drive-by, and the next thing I know, my dad’s dead, and there’s this slimy defense lawyer named Smaug living in his mansion. Incidentally, he’s the same defense lawyer who kept the Pale Orc out of jail. So, I formed the Company to fight these assholes, and go get my house back.”

“What a bunch of motherfuckers,” said Bilbo.

“I know, right?” Thorin grumbled. “Glad you’re with us, Bilbo. It’s nice to know other people care, too.”

Actually, Bilbo had no idea that the Company was anything other than an ordinary obnoxious biker gang that disturbed the peace in his quaint little respectable neighborhood as they pleased. But after hearing Thorin’s rather Batman-esque origin story, he decided that his sympathies definitely lay with this gang of intrepid explorers.

“Speaking of,” said Thorin, “how the ever-loving fuck nuggets did you get out of the Goblin lair alive?”

“I found an iPhone on the floor and took a bunch of selfies,” said Bilbo. “It’s… it’s a really strange story.”

Thorin gave him a weird look, then shrugged, face taking on a ‘not bad’ expression. “Whatever works for you, my dude.”

“Also, a guy died,” said Bilbo. “Are we going to jail?”

“Um, probably not,” said Thorin. “I doubt an obscure gang of bikers that nearly have themselves on a terrorist watch will be reporting a murder anytime soon.”

Bilbo nodded sagely. “Sound theory. I’m hungry.”

“I’ve got just the place,” said Thorin.

They landed on the outskirts of a massive ranch house, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. It was owned by a bear.

He had the bushiest of chest hair, and beard to rival Thorin’s. He wore a black leather BDSM ensemble with a rainbow unicorn horn taped to his forehead.

Taped.

They ate, and slept, and Bilbo stayed up too goddamn late playing flappy bird. Whoever’d owned the iPhone previously had a high score he just couldn’t beat. 

 _Motherfucker_ , was his last thought as he faded into sleep. 


	2. The Thot King of Smirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yo, warnings for swearing, strong language, drinking, and references to sex.

The next morning, somebody screamed in his ear.

“GET UP MOTHERFUCKER!” howled Dwalin, exactly one foot and two inches away from Bilbo’s head.

Bilbo jerked awake, gasping, “GOD DAMN IT, I HIT THE PIPE AGAIN!”

“Have you been playing Flappy Bird?” Dwalin asked him, one fuzzy eyebrow raised.

“Uh, don’t worry about it.”

They had a highly nutritious, 100% organic vegetarian breakfast, at the behest and description of their host, Beorn, who had since changed into something resembling clothes and was leering at Thorin in ways nobody was comfortable with.

“Yo, listen up, fam,” said Gandalf, as the plates were being cleared.

“Not this shit again,” Bilbo muttered under his breath.

“To get to Thorin’s old crib, we have to go through the forest of Smirkwood.”

“No,” said Thorin. “Absolutely not.”

At the opposite end of the table, Fili and Kili exchanged a look.

Suddenly, they began to yell, hair turning blonde (in Kili’s case) and eyes turning bright blue, everything flying straight up. Bright, angelic light emanated from the event horizon. Several cliché lines about the power of friendship and brotherly love spewed from their mouths, as with yet another flash of light that stripped them down to their heart-print boxers, they gave each other a hug that was only a couple hairs short of straight-up incest. They merged. The strange amalgamation of the two brothers floated across the table to hover right in front of Thorin, where he? It? They? clasped their hands together and pasted the Most Adorable Expression in The Entire World across their face.

“Pleeeeeeeease?” they asked Thorin, eyes soulful, lips quivering.

“Ugh fine,” said Thorin, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Smirkwood it is.”

With much less ado, the two brothers separated (still only in their boxers) and crashed onto the table. They high-fived each other with a triumphant expression on both their little faces.

“Well, fuck,” said Gandalf. “I guess that’s one way to do it.”

Bilbo blinked. Excessively. “Uh, did that just happen?”

“Bless those little demons,” said Balin, sniffling. He got up on the table and wrapped them in bulletproof vests, laid gold chains around their necks, and handed them a pair of Glocks. “Aren’t they just the most precious things in the world?”   

“Don’t question it,” said Bofur, in response to Bilbo’s confused, alarmed, flabbergasted, and highly concerned expressions that repeated across his face like a Windows desktop slideshow.

“Uh-huh,” said Bilbo, unable to close his mouth.

“Okay bitches,” said Thorin. “Get cleaned up. We leave at first light.”

“It’s noon,” said Bilbo.

Thorin pinned him with A Look. “Did I stutter?”

And so, Bilbo’s internal definition of ‘first light’ was changed to 1:34 PM precisely, because that’s when they all piled onto Beorn’s collection of semi-sentient motorbikes, which none of them were willing to think much about.

“You break my babies, I break you,” promised Beorn. “And don’t even _think_ about bringing them into Smirkwood.” He shuddered.

“Fo shizzle my nizzle,” said Gandalf, and that was apparently that. Despite having left at 1:34 PM and thus nowhere near dusk, they all rode off majestically into the chronologically challenged sunset.

After about 40 minutes, which was just enough time to get Bilbo’s ass cramping, they got off the bikes and proceeded into the depths of Smirkwood.

Surprisingly, it was not a giant, forest-sized bar. It was actually a giant, forest-sized forest. The only thing odd about said forest was the constant, distant beat of various LMFAO songs blasting in the background. And the river of tequila.

Appropriately, the background music changed to a dubstep remix of Tequila. 

Bombur dive-bombed into the river.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Thorin.

“Don’t touch the tequila,” Gandalf warned. “If you do, you’ll fall asleep forever!”

“Then what do we do?” Bilbo asked frantically.

“Peace, bitches,” said Gandalf. He pulled on an OBEY cap, put on shades, and magically transformed his shoes into a pair of Nike Roshes before diving into the river of booze. Exactly 6.72 seconds later, Bombur was forcefully ejected from the tequila flow. He flew twenty feet into the air before miraculously landing unharmed upon a miniature party boat, which for some reason nobody had ever noticed before.

Unfortunately, it was on the other side of the river, and Bombur was still asleep.

“This isn’t actually any better,” said Thorin.

“Wait!” said Bofur. “Bilbo’s got an iPhone. Let’s ask him if he has an app for this.”

“On it,” said Bilbo, unlocking his device.

To his surprise and chagrin, he did not have an app for this. What he did have, however, was this dating site called necRomance, which didn’t seem to have been touched for quite a number of years. Nevertheless, the previous owner of the iPhone seemed to have built up a considerable amount of rapport with the other users of the site, under the name MaiMai8472<anvil emoji> and a photo of an attractive young man with long, flowing, ever-so-slightly curled luminous ginger hair. Bilbo hadn’t even known they made anvil emojis. Or that anyone’s hair could be so voluptuous.

Among these contacts was a reasonably hot guy named Eonwe, who seemed to have a limited amount of influence in the world of birds. Within the hour Bilbo struck up a friendly conversation with him, and sent him a description of the predicament they were in.

 _I think I have just the solution for you,_ Eonwe texted.

2 minutes and 37 seconds later, a huge flock of sparrows arrived. They perched atop the boat and flapped their wings in unison, pushing it towards the Company, Bombur’s snores growing louder and louder the closer he got.   

 _Thanks, bro,_ Bilbo texted back. _You’re a lifesaver._

_Anytime, Mai. Hey, listen, you’re coming home soon, right? I know he-who-shall-not-be-named was watching the place, but it’s been ages. It’s probably safe now. Me and Curumo miss you a lot._

Bilbo didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t.

The Company loaded themselves into the boat and continued on.

“Hey, what are we going to do about Gandalf?” Bilbo asked no one in particular. “He just dove into the river he specifically told us NOT to dive into, and I don’t think he came back up. Did he drown? Do you think he drowned?”

“Eh,” said Balin. “He’ll be fine.” And apparently that was that.

Bombur woke up a few hours later and got himself an earful from Thorin, not to mention the poor dwarves who had to carry him, who were mighty pissed about his sudden urge to go swimming.

“YOLO,” he said, shrugging.

They’d come to a strange-looking clearing, hung with black sheets and randomly placed candles. The background music had changed from something a teacher would call tasteless to something a teacher would urge parents to seek therapy for children found listening to.

“Well,” said Kili, “this shit is weird. I thought this was Smirkwood, not Gothwood.”

“Well, you thought incorrectly!” a female voice shrieked.

Everyone turned to look at her.

She was a pale individual with black hair and a physique suggestive of an eating disorder, apart from her massive breasts. Her arms were heavily scarred, and she was wearing from top to bottom a black choker, a red-and-black corset, a leather miniskirt with a 666 belt buckle (don’t even ask), fishnets, and black thigh-high boots.

Fili let out a low whistle. “Well, there’s something I thought I’d never see.”

“You pervert!” she shrieked.

“Hold up,” said Fili. “I’m not-”

The woman? Girl? Prostitute? would not be deterred. “Do you know who I am?!1?1”

“Uh,” said Fili, thoroughly confused on how she’d managed to convey two instances of the number one via sheer volume of speech.

“I’m Enoby Dark’nast Dalmatia Craven Weigh! The most beautiful woman in the world, and leader of the Goths of Gothwood!”

“I beg to differ,” Fili muttered under his breath. It was the most eloquent Bilbo had ever heard him.

“Goths! Seize him!” cried Enoby. “He tried to rape me! He’s a PERVERT and a PEDOPHILE!1!!11!”

“No I’m not,” said Fili, more concerned with- again- how she’d managed to properly express a numerical value through seemingly impossible decibels.

“He’s right, he isn’t,” said Bilbo pleadingly. “He hasn’t even taken a step towards you! Can’t you see we’re just trying to walk through here in peace?”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Thorin. “These goths are a serious infestation. The denizens of Smirkwood would be grateful to us if we eliminated them.”

Hearing this, Enoby’s decidedly un-beautiful face morphed into an expression worthy of your uglier banshees. “GET THEM ALL!1!!111!”

A platoon of goths materialized behind her, all wielding machine guns and knives of varying levels of efficacy. Still, it was enough to be worried about, and at this point, Bilbo knew he had to do something about this shit. He whipped out his phone, pulled up YouTube, and selected the appropriate video.

“Hey guys,” he said. “We’re not really preps. We’re undercover goths. I can prove it!”

“I DON’T CARE!!!1!” screamed Enoby, but even her heedless rage gave way when she heard the opening strains of My Chemical Romance’s “I’m Not Okay”.

“See?” said Bilbo, hastily applying guyliner under Kili’s careful instruction. “We’re on your side!”

And so, at the cost of a bit of the Company’s dignity and the comfort of poor Bilbo’s eyes, the situation was brought under control, and the goths sent them off with the closest thing to a blessing they could muster. Crisis motherfucking adverted.

“Ugh, thanks, dude,” said Fili. “You totally saved my ass back there.”

“No problem,” said Bilbo, who was starting to get a bit of a fuzzy feeling in his chest.

It grew when Kili echoed the praise. “Yeah! That was smooth, pulling out MCR like that. I never would’ve thought of it myself!”

“Aww, thanks, guys,” said Bilbo, ducking his head bashfully, as the entire Company gathered around to congratulate him.

The icing on the cake was when Thorin shook his hand, decided that wasn’t enough, and pulled him into a manly hug.

“You know, when Gandalf insisted we take his bookish friend with us on our quest, I thought you were going to wash out in the first hour,” said Thorin. “And then, I thought you were going to get yourself killed.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, managing to feel a little sad, even in the arms of a highly attractive man with a great ass and wonderful taste in cologne.

“Never have I been more wrong,” said Thorin. And hugged him even tighter. “Thanks for saving my nephew, Bilbo. And probably the rest of us, too.”

Bilbo went incandescent with joy.

Then Thorin released him. “Okay, motherfuckers, we’ve still got a shit ton of walking to do. Let’s get to it!”

“Yes, sir!” said everyone in the Company, and they marched onwards.

A couple of days later, they came upon a massive fucking party out in the middle of the woods, full of, well, hipsters.

One of said hipsters was named Legolas. He was in an open relationship with another guy named Meludir, and wanted to invite Fili and Kili to his place for a foursome. He was also excessively blond, tall, lanky, and carried a small Gucci purse. A pair of neon green shutter shades were perched precariously on his nose.

“No thanks, I’m straight,” said Kili.

“That’s okay,” said Legolas, looking slightly disappointed. “We accept all sexual orientations and gender identities here.”

“Sign me up!” said Fili. He disappeared to go have sex.

“Wait,” said Bilbo. “Shouldn’t you-”

Thorin beat him to it. “OH NO YOU DON’T!” he roared, leaping after them, but it was too late. “FUCK!”

“Okay, just calm down,” said Bilbo. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You don’t understand,” said Thorin, obviously very worried. “This party is…”

“Well, well, well,” said a snooty voice behind them. “Look who we have here.”

“It’s the Thot King,” whispered Thorin. “The Thot King of Smirkwood.”

 

 

 

A door slammed. At his father’s side, standing on the massive dais, Legolas crossed his arms and huffed.

“Come on, Dad, I was about to have epic sex,” he complained.

“Shut your face, son of mine. Daddy knows best.”

Legolas shuddered in utter revulsion. Bilbo really couldn’t blame him. Meludir held his boyfriend close and made soothing noises.

“Alright, bitches,” said the Thot King. “What the fuck are you doing in my hood?”

“None of your cocking business,” growled Thorin.

The Thot King tsk-ed. “I got better things to do than listen to these white cis males exercise their privilege. Lock them up!” Several guards shuffled the Company off the dais.

“But… you _are_ a white cis male,” said Bilbo.

“Yeah, but I’m gay,” said the Thot King. “I don’t count.”

 _Okay, good,_ thought Bilbo. _Keep him talking._ The beginnings of a plan stirred in his mind.

“So, it’s a valid point that white cis straight males are discriminated in favor of,” said Bilbo. “But now you’re discriminating against them. Doesn’t that make you just as bad as they are?” He eased his phone out of his back pocket.

“No,” said the Thot King. “They’ve oppressed us for ages. This is just payback for their crimes.” He frowned. “Didn’t I send you away? Why are you still here?”

“Well, to be honest, he did have a valid point,” said the woman holding Bilbo.

“Well, take him to where he’s supposed to be,” said the Thot King.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go,” said Bilbo. “But first, let me take a selfie.” He pressed play.

At once, the entirety of the hall erupted into rave mode. Strobe lights flashed, dubstep roared, and shutter shades were hastily shoved onto attractive faces. Beer pong exploded into existence in the far corner of the room, and too close to Bilbo for comfort, some form of alcohol was set on fire.

“Well, fuck,” said the woman holding Bilbo. “I had no idea that was a thing that could happen.”

“Uh, me neither,” said Bilbo. “I’m Bilbo.”

“I’m Tauriel,” said the guardswoman. “Uh, if you want to get out of here, I guess I won’t stop you.”

“I’d love that, but I have to get my friends,” said Bilbo. “Do you know where they are?”

“Right this way,” said Tauriel. She led him down a flight of stairs, took a left, and arrived at a set of dungeon cells with thirteen highly disgruntled biker dudes in them, all of whom were very glad to see Bilbo.

“Hey, guys,” he said, as Tauriel unlocked all their cell doors.

“Bilbo!” cried Fili and Kili, in unison.

“Okay, no time for happy reunions,” said Bilbo. “We have to get out of here before the rave is over.”

Tauriel snorted. “That won’t be for at least four days. Here’s a key; y’all can raid King Thranduil’s wine cabinet if you want. That fucker don’t need any more alcohol in his system than the iced vodka his blood is surely made of.”

Kili looked at her like he’d found his soulmate. “You,” he proclaimed, “are the coolest broad I’ve ever met.”

“Why thank you,” said Tauriel. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go check on Legolas. He’s not a bad kid, but… well. You’ve seen how he’s been raised.” She went, then turned back. “Oh, and here’s the key to the pier. Thranduil’s also got a pretty dope party yacht.”

“We’ve finished raiding the wine cellar!” called Dwalin.

“Then let’s get the fuck out of here!” yelled Thorin, taking the key from Tauriel. He thanked her. “To the yacht!”

“Bitchin’,” declared Fili.

“Yeah,” said Bilbo, nodding. He grinned. “Bitchin’ indeed.”

And so, the Company piled onto the Thot King’s yacht, sailing off into the sunset and leaving the weird-ass trials of Smirkwood far, far behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, whoever finds the Star Trek reference gets a virtual hug-n-kiss from yours truly.


	3. In the Shadow of the Bonely Mountain

A few hours later, Balin, who (due to an unfortunate liver condition) was the only one still sober, woke them up.

He pointed.

“What the hell is that?” said Thorin, peering at the shape in the distance.

Bilbo scratched his head. “It looks like, a, um… Actually you know what I have no idea.”

They shrugged, replaced their top hats and monocles, and continued to sip wine. A bottle of Dorwinion Red trickled elegantly down Thorin’s throat, face, and beard.

Two minutes later, they became aware of a repeated thumping noise coming from the prow of the boat.

Proceeding with caution, both of them tiptoed to it, taking a rather circuitous route as to avoid detection and adjusting their top hats and monocles every third step or so. Every fourth time that happened, they had to stop and have a silent giggle fit. Perhaps that should’ve been a good indicator that they were drunk off their mutual asses. By the time they finally got to the source of the disturbance, both were sort of tomato-ish.

The noise, as it turned out, was Balin, repeatedly slamming his head against the cabin door.

“Uh, Balin,” said Bilbo, “what…”

“…the fuck are you doing?” Thorin finished for him.

Balin said nothing, only pointing again.

Then they saw it.

Off in the distance, above the dark, dreary shape of Laketown, was a giant penis.

It was a magnificent specimen, fully erect, glans flaring proudly as it, ahem, penetrated the clouds. At its base was a pair of huge balls, evergreen trees sprouting from it like pubic hair. As they watched, a rush of white thundered down its shaft. Probably an avalanche.

“Whoa,” whispered Bilbo, completely in awe of the majestic spectacle.

“The Bonely Mountain,” Thorin announced with reverent glee. “We’re home!”

Bilbo kinda sorta maybe wanted to lick it.

Balin ceased his head-pounding long enough to contradict that statement. “Actually, we’re still a few hours away. Just long enough for you to sleep off the wine, boys.”

“Sleep’s good,” said Thorin, nodding.

Bilbo was still staring. “He _lives_ on that thing?”

“Oh yes,” said Balin, nodding. He sat down and rubbed his bruised forehead. “Would you like me to tell you the story?”

“Absolutely!”

Balin smiled. “Then settle down!”

With Bilbo properly settled, he cleared his throat, and began the epic tale of the Bonely Mountain.

“Thorin’s great-grandfather or something, Durin? That man was rich as fuck,” Balin explained. “When he retired, he bought the entire goddamn mountain, and planned the perfect neighborhood at its base, nestled among the testes, in an area he called Dale.”

“But Thorin doesn’t live in Dale,” said Bilbo. “He lives in Erebor.”

Balin chuckled. “That he does! Erebor is the name Durin gave to the great big honkin’ ancestral family mansion he built right on the slopes of the Bonely Mountain. Some rumors even say he built tunnels into its shaft, where he hides the great wealth of his line! Which is actually sort of true. When Durin died, he transferred all the money he had which wasn’t being used to maintain his projects into a sort of Oakenshield communal bank account, from which all members of the Oakenshield family could withdraw. It’s probably over a billion dollars; ya boi Thorin is set for life. Right before the Pale Orc did his drive-by, Thorin’s dad received an anonymous tip from a dude with the internet username maimai8472, telling him his life may be in danger. The first thing he did, being a greedy lil’ motherfucker, was to completely shut down his bank account so that no one could get into it without a secret access code. And guess what he did with the access code?”

“He put it in the tunnels,” breathed Bilbo. “Didn’t he? That’s why Smaug wanted the house!”

“Right you are, m’boi,” said Balin, grinning.

“And Thorin’s going to go get it back!”

“Yup!”

Bilbo nodded. “So… is he going to sue? I can be his legal advisor. I used to be a lawyer.”

Balin burst out laughing.

“I’ll… take that as a ‘no’,” said Bilbo, slightly miffed.

“Oh, child,” said Balin, snickering, “your offer of help is greatly appreciated. But does Thorin really strike you as the type to get things done legally?”

“You… have a point there.”

Balin chuckled to himself. “I thought I did.”

A magical timeskip occurred, in which the sun shifted to its afternoon five o’clock position in the sky and the boat lurched forward, decelerating back into its slow trawl as it reached the spot it would have been in a few hours later. That is, on the Long Lake, just outside Laketown, directly under the shaft of the Bonely Mountain.

Bilbo and Balin were the only ones who experienced the timeskip, being the only ones actually awake at the time. Or rather, the… lack thereof? Excess of? Uh… Anyways, the point was that their brains were having a little trouble parsing it, whilst the others just assumed the time had passed naturally.

“Yo wassup, my niggas,” said a jarringly familiar voice.

“Gandalf!” cried Bilbo, happy enough he was still alive to forget to be mad over the blatant misuse of hip-hop slang. “I thought you drowned in tequila!”

Gandalf squinted and made a so-so gesture. “Nah, fam. I be trippin’ balls tho.”

“Oh god,” said Bilbo. “Not this shit again.”

He covered his ears and darted inside the cabin, just as Gandalf began to badly rap one of 50 Cent’s… songs? Honestly, those things were more like a poem with an attitude. A bad attitude.

“Help me,” he said, grabbing a hold of Thorin’s lapels. “Gandalf’s back. And he’s _rapping_.”

“He’s _what_?!”

“It’s terrible!” cried Bilbo. “Somebody do something!”

“I can help!” cried a new voice.

Everyone, including Gandalf (who was still rapping), turned to stare.

The voice belonged to a man, standing on a small fishing boat that flanked Thranduil’s huge party yacht, whose general demeanor reeked of up-and-coming sportiness. Of course, this meant Bilbo immediately took a liking to him, and Thorin immediately took a loathing to him. He was a black-haired individual, every strand neatly combed back and gathered in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, tied with an industrious blue ribbon. His jacket, though slightly dirty, was neat, his collar was stiff, his bow tie was studiously chipper, his pants were completely lacking in wrinkles, and his boots were a curiously perfect balance between shiny and dull, suggesting that he took care of them, but he also did his job.

Flashing an earnest grin at the Company, the man diligently rolled up his sleeves. “My name’s Bard,” he introduced himself, winking. Then, with nary a bit of ill humor about him, he jumped over the railing of the yacht, strode over to Gandalf, and socked him in the face.

Gandalf, being seventy years old _at least_ , did exactly what they all expected. He staggered backwards, all the way across the deck, fell backwards over the railing, and landed in the water below with a very relieving splash.

Bard was still grinning.

“Hey!” Thorin’s face took on an angry cast. “Who the fuck said you could get on my boat?”

“The law,” Bard replied pleasantly. “Do you have a permit?”

“A permit?”

Ah. Permits. With a certain sense of demonic joy only found in lawyers, Bilbo recognized his area of expertise.

“Permit for what?” he inquired, equally as pleasantly as Bard. “We have driver’s licenses- well, I do, and I’m the one driving this thing. Is that what you meant?”

“Not quite, although that’s very good,” said Bard, nodding in approval. He straightened his bow tie. “What I did mean was, do you have a permit for partying?”

Bilbo coughed. “What is this, some sort of joke?” he asked, still in that disgustingly friendly demeanor all lawyers employed sooner or later. “You don’t need a permit to party- that’s what makes us a free country, after all.”

Immediately, all of the up-and-coming official conscientiousness whooshed out of Bard like air from a balloon. “Thank _god_ ,” he said fervently. “I was beginning to think they’d all gone crazy.”

“Speak plainly,” growled Thorin. “What’s going on?”

Bard hissed through his teeth, fists clenched at his side. “First, they banned drugs. Then, they banned alcohol. Then, they banned recreational sex, and then those motherfuckers banned partying!”

“But… but you can’t ban partying,” said Bilbo. “It’s a civil right. I used to be a lawyer. I know a lot about civil rights.”

“A lawyer, eh?” Bard looked over him shrewdly. “Well, can you say with confidence that whatever this shit is, it’s unconstitutional?”

“Bitch, gun regulations get unconstitutional. This fuckery is in plain violation of human rights,” said Bilbo. With confidence.

Much like the balloon in his previous analogy, Bard sagged onto the deck of the party yacht. “Jesus Bourne. It’s finally over.”

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa,” said Bilbo. “Complete system turnover takes a while. You aren’t quite out of the woods yet, I’m afraid.”

Thorin got a particularly stoopid thinking expression on his face.

“Oh no,” said Bilbo.

“Can I hit it with a stick?”

“What?”

“I said, can I hit it with a stick?”

“Absolutely not!”

“But is there, like, a physical entity I can hit with a stick?”

Bilbo peered at Thorin. “You are drunk off your motherfucking ass.”

Bard rolled around on the floor, jacket discarded, bowtie ripped off, shirt rapidly becoming unbuttoned. “WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Thorin shrugged and grimaced. “But I can hit it, right? With a stick?”

“I…” Bilbo cradled his head in his hands. “Laketown is a city, right? Cities have mayors. Yes. Theoretically, THEORETICALLY, you could hit him with a stick.”

Thorin gave a manly growl of glee.

“We are so fucked,” said Bilbo.

Fili came up and patted him on the shoulder. “It’ll be alright! Thorin’s got a stick!”

 

…

 

Thousands of seconds later, Bilbo said the exact same thing. “We are so fucked.”

“Don’t worry,” said Kili, “Thorin’s got a stick!”

Thorin indeed had a stick, despite Bilbo’s valiant efforts to take it away from him. Drunk, confused, and quite angry, the man was swinging it in a wide arc at a bunch of town constables attempting to apprehend him.

“This isn’t even remotely legal,” said Bilbo. “I mean, I know we’ve killed a guy, but this is somehow worse!”

“Psst! Hey,” said Bard, motioning to Bilbo, Fili, and Kili. “Come here!”

They joined him in his hiding spot behind a couple of reeking barrels.

“Bard, what are we going to do?” Bilbo groaned. “Thorin’s attacking everybody with a stick!”

Bard snickered. “Sit back and enjoy the show, shortstack. Or- even better- antagonize the situation!”

“Antagonize the situation? I don’t see how this could possibly be any worse!”

“Oh, it could be,” said Bard, grinning. “It could be so much worse.”

“How?!”

“Party music!”

Fili and Kili looked at each other, and proceeded to have a rare moment of brilliance. “Then it’s double against the law!”

“But the law against partying is unconstitutional,” said Bilbo.

Bard nodded. “Exactly! That means when the proper people come to investigate, as they will for an incident of this magnitude, they’ll assume that it was a party, and Thorin was acting in self-defense! Protecting his civil rights, as it were.”

“There’s one problem with that theory,” said Bilbo. “Right now, it’s just a guy. With a stick. This is hardly an incident of magnitude.”

“Well, right now it isn’t,” said Bard. He winked. “But it could be.”

Fili and Kili looked at each other again, then turned the full force of their puppy eyes on the hapless Bilbo.

They need not have.

“Okay,” said Bilbo. “This shit is just too awesome to pass up.”

After some intense debate about the song they were going to play, they all settled on the time-honored classic: LMFAO’s Party Rock Anthem.

“Dude, turn it up all the way,” said Fili.

“Okay, okay.” Bilbo opened his settings to really turn up the sound, and discovered a plethora of shit he was pretty sure didn’t come with normal iPhones. Among this shit was a setting labeled: BASS BOOST (CHECK YES OR NO)

There were many other such settings, but you get the picture.

Bilbo checked absolutely all of them.

The world dropped into slow-mo. Every single member of the Company picked up a stick. A disco ball appeared in the sky, reflecting the light of the sun into a million glowing fragments, casting them adrift amongst the streets of the city. Champagne fountained from unlikely places, golden droplets catching the light, as the opening beat of Party Rock Anthem blasted through Laketown.

“LET’S MOTHERFUCKING GO!” shouted Thorin. He ripped off his tearaway biker jacket, pants, and Under Armour shirt, to reveal the most magnificent party getup in history, complete with Nike Roshis, leopard-print pants, and all the gold chains his neck could handle, jangling as he aggressively tapped his foot on the floor, jerking to the beat.

Every single member of the Company followed suit, and all gathered in the courtyard for the most epic shuffle of their motherfucking lives.

A heated dance battle broke out, between the Company and everybody else. Kili got on the floor and breakdanced. Fili copied the swing moves of the famous jazz era. Thorin… just sort of flexed his muscles and looked amazing. Amidst it all, Bard picked Bilbo up and swung him around, screaming-

PARTY ROCK IS IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT!

EVERYBODY JUST HAVE A GOOD TIME.

OH, WE GON’ MAKE YOU LOSE YO MINDS!

WE JUST WANNA SEE YA, SHAKE THAT-

And everybody shook that. They writhed. They spasmed. They seized on the dance floor, shuffling and swinging and boogying to the best of their ability. Even Bilbo, reserved as he was, tore away his clothes to reveal an absolute bomb party getup, sequined shoes sparkling as he shook that as hard as he could.

It was the greatest fucking party of all goddamn time.


	4. The Last Dumbfuckery

Unfortunately, like all good things, the party came to an end- with the sound of automatic gunfire.

A motherfucking tank rolled down the street. Perched atop it was the goddamn mayor of Laketown himself, dressed in Elrond-style formal robes, although it had much brighter colors and was considerably tackier. Across these were slung two ammo belts, never-used bullets gleaming. In his pudgy hands was clutched a Soviet-made AK-47, smoking lightly from the barrel.

At his side, a man in a hideous fur hat with milk stains all down his own robes cowered in fear.

As all looked on, the mayor lifted his gun and fired another burst, rounds skittering haphazardly around the entire square.

“Everybody duck!” yelled Thorin. Somehow, that worked, and nobody got hurt.

Then, somebody in the middle of the square screamed, and all hell broke loose.

People were literally running in every fucking direction there was to run- it was like Black Friday, except everybody was terrified on top of frantic, and there was some maniac with a tank and a semiautomatic assault rifle with infinite ammo. Bilbo would’ve been trampled in the chaos if Thorin hadn’t miraculously found him and lifted him onto his shoulders.

“What’s happening?” he yelled, as Thorin waded through the masses.

Thorin shrugged- a dangerous move, as it nearly sent Bilbo tumbling onto the ground. “Hell if I know. This asshole showed up, and now everybody’s scared out of their damn minds!”

“Oh, we are _definitely_ going to jail.”

“NO PARTYING!” the mayor screamed through a megaphone. “YOUR ALL UNDER ARREST!”

Bilbo’s eyes unfocused. “What the HELL? How the FUCK did he confuse ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ through SPEECH?”

They arrived at where the rest of the Company was huddled behind a fence.

Dwalin in particular seemed distressed. “Thorin! Thank fuck. What the hell do we do?”

“I’d say damage control, but…” Thorin gestured helplessly.

He was right. It was panic at the disco out there.

Bard, over in the corner, laughed.

“Don’t you see?” he said. “This is motherfucking perfect! Now all we gotta do is wait for the National Guard to show up.”

He looked even more disheveled than before. The entirety of his lower face was smeared with bright red lipstick, his hair was wet, and his shirt looked to have been set on fire in a few places. He was missing one shoe.

With a start, Bilbo remembered their original plan: cook up enough of a ruckus, and wait for the authorities, so they could properly explain themselves and end the party ban.

He cast his gaze towards the Bonely Mountain. Dusk glittered off the slopes of the massive dick; lights were coming on in Erebor.

“You know,” he said, “if we aren’t going to do anything here, then we should just go to Erebor. I mean, it’s not like anyone over there’s going to be looking away from Laketown anytime soon.”

Thorin perked up. “You’re right,” he said. “This neat little clusterfuck we have going on over here will keep them distracted for hours! It’s the perfect time to sneak in. Bilbo, you’re a motherfucking genius!”

“Aww, thanks,” said Bilbo, blushing.

Bard mock vomited. “Ew. Okay, you fuckers get the hell out of here. Go do your thing. I’ll handle whomever gets here.”

“You sure you’ll be alright?” asked Thorin.

“Yes, yes!” said Bard, gesticulating impatiently. “Fuck off already! I got this.”

“Alright then.”

With that, the Company fucked off.

It was a simple matter to get out of the town- everybody was so busy looking at everybody else trying to get out of town, they snuck past everyone with no problem. Kili slipped on a puddle of vodka and fell on his ass, but that wasn’t a big deal. The real problem arose when they got close to Erebor’s grounds.

“Fuck it,” said Thorin. “Granddad did always have the best security. I just figured nobody’d figure out how to hack it.”

“Probably handed over the password as part of the deal,” said Balin. “Sorry, kid.”

“Wait,” said Bilbo. “You can hack security cameras?”

“Mmhm,” said Thorin. “Do all sorts of crazy shit, like put ‘em on a ten-second loop. Makes it look like nothing was ever there.”

Bilbo whipped out his phone. “Y’know, I bet there’s an app for that.”

They all crowded around him as he swiped through his rather impressive number of home screen pages. He got all the way up to the eighth one before he found what he was looking for: an application called “EasyHack: Hacking for people who have no fucking idea what they’re doing.” He opened it up.

POINT THE POWER BUTTON END TOWARD THE THING YOU WANT TO HACK, read the instructions.

He did so.

HACKED.

“Wait, seriously?” Bilbo frowned. “That can’t be it.”

Apparently, it was, because five seconds later, it took him to a new screen that showed him the feed from all the cameras in the complex.

The Company oohed an ‘ah’ed. “Holy shit, Bilbo, that’s fucking awesome,” said Kili.

“Hey, I didn’t make it,” said Bilbo. “Some poor dude out there is probably really missing his phone.”  Inwardly, he hoped the only thing missing was the phone, and not MaiMai8472.

“Alright, alright, enough swooning over Bilbo’s phone,” said Thorin. “What do we got?”

“Well, says here there’s an option to loop,” said Bilbo, pointing at the corner of his screen, where it did indeed say “Loop”. After a bit of tinkering, he got it to do just that.

“Great!” said Kili. “Now we’re invisible!”

“Let’s go,” said Thorin. The Company moved out.

After a bit of skulking and pseudo-military hand signaling, Bilbo asked, “So what exactly are we trying to accomplish here?”

“Find Smaug,” said Thorin. “Take him out.”

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa. That’s… that’s not even remotely legal,” said Bilbo. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s just straight up manslaughter. Murder, right there.”

Thorin shrugged. “I mean, we already killed somebody…”

“No! No we didn’t!” Bilbo whisper-shouted. “He launched himself over the ledge! This is… this is malicious intent!”

“Fuck. Fine,” groaned Thorin. “Does anyone have a better idea?”

Fili and Kili put their heads together- quite literally, in fact. Balin and Dwalin settled for scratching their beards. Dori, Ori, and Nori pulled out a bag of D&D dice and started trying to predict the future, while Oin and Gloin started off having a rational discussion that turned into an endless litany of “Yo Mama” jabs. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur never even touched the rational discussion and went straight to the dick jokes.

“See, this is why I don’t take suggestions,” Thorin grumbled.

“Um, I have a better idea,” said Bilbo, tentatively raising his hand.

“Ugh. Fine. Let’s hear it.”

“What if we find some sort of evidence of illegal activity?” said Bilbo. “Like, a version of your grandfather’s last will and testament that left the estate to you. Then we could evict Smaug.”

Thorin hummed. “I suppose that could work. I have here the will and testament of my dad. It says that I get the estate. And if we find a document giving the estate to my dad from my grandfather…” He stuck his whole arm down one of his pockets, all the way up to the shoulder, and rummaged.

Bilbo stared. “That’s not physically possible.”

Thorin shrugged. Then his face brightened, and he pulled out a much-loved document that smelled like pipe smoke. “Here it is.”

It was actually kind of difficult for Bilbo to look at the thing, as proximity to the… _paper_ made his eyes water. The thing seemed to be more smoke than not. Sure enough, though, it was Thorin’s father’s will, although Bilbo was pretty sure he lost the use of one lung by verifying this.

“Jesus Christ, Thorin, how much did your old man smoke?” he choked out through a fit of coughing. “I think I’m becoming riddled with cancer as we speak.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” said Thorin, rolling his eyes. “Anyways. Since it’s legit, does that mean the plan will work?”

Bilbo finished coughing and held up a finger. “Hold up a mo. I never said anything about a plan. I just sort of tossed out an idea there so we wouldn’t have to kill anybody.”

Thorin nodded sagely. “Very well, Bilbo Baggins. I trust you. If you say the plan will work, I believe it will work.”

“That is NOT what I said! And since when have you known my last name?”

But nobody listened to him.

“It sounds legit,” said Balin. “There’s just one thing: Why on earth would Smaug still have your grandfather’s last will and testament?”

Thorin chuckled. “See, there’s where we’re in luck. Son of a bitch is a major hoarder. He paid a lot to keep it out of the news, but my sister- Fili and Kili’s mom- works as a reporter. She heard it on the grapevine. As they say it, he never throws anything away.”

“Then we need to find his hoard!” said Balin. 

Bilbo, staring at his phone screen, cleared his throat. Everyone turned to look at him. He looked up.

“I don’t know about you guys,” he said, “but this giant pile of junk looks a _lot_ like a hoard to me.”

Thorin grinned. “It’s settled, then! To the hoard!”

After intense debate on how they were going to accomplish this attack, the Company decided they would stealth-crabwalk. How on earth the oodles of guards were able to miss, like, fifteen people scuttling across the floor _sideways_ was forever going to be a mystery to Bilbo, but ultimately, he gave no shits. The real trouble came when they reached Smaug’s office.

Thorin decided to risk it and took a peek inside. What he saw would scar him forever.

“Why the _hell_ ,” he said, shivering in the fetal position, “does he have so many _sheep figurines_?”

Bilbo was the next to look.

Thorin was right. The office contained an obscene amount of sheep figurines… and statues… and plush toys… and… was that an actual fucking sheep?

The animal affixed its creepy eyes on Bilbo’s and baaed.

Holy shit. There was a fucking sheep in Smaug’s office.

There was also a sheep plush toy dressed in Barbie lingerie. Bilbo honestly wasn’t sure which one bothered him more.

All of this on its own would’ve made Bilbo immediately run for the hills, but there was one thing in that den of sheep-crazy that caught his eye and refused to let go.

It sat, regal amongst the surrounding squalor, on the lawyer’s desk, a shining beacon of normalcy in the midst of all the gross. The tail end of a perfectly respectable ballpoint pen poked out past its rim. It was the most beautiful coffee cup Bilbo had ever seen in his life.

“I have to have that,” he said. “I just have to.”

Prior to this, he hadn’t even known you could make porn out of ceramics. He had been grievously mistaken. The way the glaze shined just so on the handle… the beautiful drip pattern of the main body… the tastefully printed _Ad Victoriam…_

“Psst,” said Kili. “Go for it!”

So Bilbo did.

Braving the horrors of the office and trying not to look at (or smell) the sheep, he darted in, grabbed it, and darted back out, clutching it to his chest with glee. Upon exiting the room, he immediately collapsed onto the ground and began to convulse, resisting all attempts to soothe him by curling even tighter around the mug and snarling, “ _My Precious!_ ”

They left him to it for a little while. Sure enough, he went back to normal pretty fast, and it was on to the hoard.

Finally, after traversing seemed like an unnecessary amount of catwalks and hallways (“I don’t remember it being this big when I lived here!” complained Thorin), they reached Smaug’s treasure room.

It wasn’t actually a treasure room so much as a literal ski slope built out of discarded papers, hidden behind a door.

“Well, fuck,” said Fili. “How are we supposed to find one paper in all that?”

Thorin grinned.

“It’s a closely guarded secret that special documentation of the Oakenshield family is always written in heat-producing ink,” he said. “That way, we’d always be able to tell the really important stuff from all the other bullshit on our desks. My grandfather’s will should be the same. Thing is, we need infrared goggles to be able to find it.”

“Never fear!” Dwalin pulled a large amount of said goggles out of his tool belt. Bilbo watched, flummoxed, as not one, not two, but _fifteen_ of them made their way onto the ground. Even one looked too big to fit.

“Did the Oakenshield family also design endless pockets?” he asked.

Dwalin raised an eyebrow. “Endless pockets? What are you talking about?”

“You just pulled fifteen- Oh, never mind,” said Bilbo, facepalming.

One by one, they all slapped on a pair of goggles and got digging.

Three hours later, they were all about ready to give up. Not one of them had found anything. Bilbo sighed, wishing he had something to eat, and flopped down on the pile of legalese for a break.

Something shimmery caught his eye.

He snatched it. It was an old document, choked through with tobacco fumes and something he was pretty sure smelled like cocaine, but it was still legible. Better yet, at the top, it read, in big, fancy letters:

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THROR OAKENSHIELD

“I found it!” he yelled. “I found the will!”

The Company erupted into cheers. Somebody grabbed him and tossed him into the air, and then he was impromptu crowdsurfing- or crowdlurching, as it were. Somehow, through all this, he was able to keep track of the document, until Thorin plucked it out of his hands.

“You’ve done it! You’ve won the day,” he said, a grin on his unfairly handsome face. Bilbo blushed.

Then, a furious roar sounded from above.

“WHO STOLE MY COFFEE CUP?!”

“Oh shit,” said Fili.

Thorin picked Bilbo up and tucked him under an arm. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

They rushed out of there like a herd of wildebeest, trampling everything and everyone in their path. Since they’d forsaken the stealth-crabwalk, they very quickly gained a following of angry guards, waving security batons and shooting pistols. Fortunately, as they’d all graduated from the Imperial Stormtrooper Training Academy, literally none of the bullets connected with anything- except for one of Smaug’s favorite lamps. Privately, the man who’d shot it considered this good riddance.

It was with this catastrophe on their tail that they burst into Laketown.

Apparently, the place had gone up a level or two on the Chaos tree. The entirety of Smirkwood was there, Enoby included, screaming profanities at anyone who so much as looked in her direction. The Thot King was sprawled over a pile of couches, each one progressively more soaked through with suspicious substances than the last. Tauriel was sitting on top of the fountain, facepalming eternally. Legolas, Bard, and Meludir were having sex in an alley. Beorn was passing out what he called ‘vegan party snacks’ that were literally just sticks of powdered sugar. Elrond was assisting in a hazmat suit that somehow still managed to be fashionable, stopping to tap something out on his Samsung Galaxy 6s every so often. The mayor was still gunning, except the only thing he ever managed to hit was pavement. His weird assistant with the stains on his clothes was making a valiant attempt to avoid joining a coalition of pot smokers attempting to recruit him. Everybody else had resumed partying, and there were now three disco balls instead of one.

“What. The. Actual. Fuck,” said Thorin.

Smaug’s guards, which had, up to this point, been faithfully carrying out their pursuit of the intruders, exchanged a communal meaningful look and noped the hell out of there.

Bilbo was shaken out of his shell-shocked trance by his phone suddenly buzzing. It was from an unknown number. The text read: OMG FUK U H8TER U SUK Y DONT U FKNG KYS

He blocked it and resumed being shell-shocked.

Eventually, the Company congealed by the fountain, right under the facepalming Tauriel. A few of them started munching on popcorn, enjoying the show. To this day, Fili and Kili will swear that at some point, Slaanesh did actually appear out of a hole in the sky, and it did start raining vodka. The only thing the Company could all agree on by the end of it, probably because he was still there, was that Gandalf showed up to DJ the whole shitfest. At some point, the National Guard had also arrived, but they were quickly absorbed into the writhing masses.

Then, some fucker named Aragorn showed up.

With a surprising level of efficacy, and the help of Thorin (once he’d managed to make some sense of the situation), Aragorn wrangled everybody into a vague semblance of order. Bard, emerging from his sex marathon, pitched in to further midwife the nascent bits of organization into existence. Fili and Kili used their powers for good (for once) and started puppy-eyeing people into putting the cocaine away- at least, for now. Tauriel single-handedly subdued the mayor, then she and Legolas wrangled the Thot King and the rest of Mirkwood back into their boats and began sailing away.

When the people were back in their homes, Mirkwood had well and truly left, and the National Guard came back to their senses, Bilbo set about explaining the situation. The mayor was arrested and taken away, and Bard was promised further investigation into the whole matter. To this, he responded with a sleepy thumbs up, and promptly collapsed onto the ground, where he began to snore. Somehow, somewhere, he’d gotten a badly-done emo makeover that was further smudged, leaving his face this weird mottled grey.

The National Guard also agreed to give the Company plus Gandalf a lift back home in their helicopters, which they accepted gratefully. A day or so after they arrived, the Company got back together at Imladris to discuss the next step.

“We have enough material,” said Bilbo. “We can sue.”

It was a heartwarming moment for him as he broke out his old, much-loved courtroom suit from the protective packaging in which it lay. He polished his leather shoes, shaved, cut his hair, donned the suit, and tied his tie crisp and neat, just like he used to. Then, after many long hours spent with Thorin, he crafted an expert argument against Smaug, which totally fucking rekt the sleazy lawyer in court. Thorin’s estate was returned to him, as well as a sum of fifteen million dollars, which he split thoroughly amongst the Company. His own share he gave to Bilbo.

“I’m already rich,” he said. “I don’t need this money. Besides, there’s no way I could’ve done this without you.”

A week before he was to return to Erebor, he contacted Bilbo for a meetup by the beach. They got Cuban sandwiches, fries, and chocolate shakes at a quaint little café by the water, and ate their meal with their feet dangling off the pier into the cool water.

“Y’know,” said Thorin, “the name Bilbo Oakenshield doesn’t sound half bad.”

“Holy shit,” said Bilbo, heart lurching.

Thorin grinned. “D’you think maybe Erebor could wait a little while?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! The last part of stage one. So sorry it took me so long to hash it out! I've been absolutely swamped with work lately. But amidst the constant waves of reports and projects and really annoying people, I managed to squeeze in little bits and pieces, until I ended up with something resembling a chapter, which I decided I'd just post. If you liked it, please let me know! A kudo, and especially a comment, goes a long way towards my heart. :) And never fear, the fun isn't over! Next up, we have Frodo's arc, which will go on for considerably longer. Expect high-speed hijinks, the best friendship you've ever seen, more Elrond, more Gollum, the Unholy Silmarillion Four-Man Team, and of course, even more insanity. I can't wait to keep writing this wonderful abomination. I am Quincy Jones on Discord if anyone wishes to chat- just look for the icon of a weird grey woman with deep blue eyes. See you all in the next chapter!


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